The Tea Garden’s Empty Hours

The drive from Dharamshala to Palampur was a ribbon of green, the hills folding into themselves like a slow breath. My girlfriend, Meera, and I had planned this trip for months, a circuit through the Himalayan foothills that promised mist, tea, and the kind of quiet that makes you forget your phone. We’d already spent two nights in Dharamshala, where the air was thin and the temples hummed with bells, and one night in Bir-Billing, where the paragliders rode the thermals like unconcerned gods. Our final stop was Palampur, a town known for its tea estates, and we’d booked a night at Hotel Teabud, a government-run property that sat in the middle of a sprawling tea garden.

We arrived in the late afternoon, the sun a pale disc through the haze. The hotel was a long, single-story building with a red-tiled roof, its whitewashed walls streaked with moss. A wide veranda ran along the front, lined with cane chairs that looked like they’d been there since the British era. The manager, a thin man with a pencil mustache, greeted us with a namaste and handed us a brass key. ‘Room 7,’ he said, smiling. ‘Face the garden. Very peaceful.’ We thanked him and walked to our room, the floorboards creaking under our feet. Inside, it was simple: a double bed with a heavy quilt, a wooden wardrobe, a window that overlooked the tea bushes. On the wall hung a framed photograph of the hotel in its colonial days, with British officers standing on the veranda, their faces crisp and sharp.

Meera was thrilled. She threw her bag on the bed and opened the window, letting in the scent of damp earth and leaves. ‘This is perfect,’ she said. ‘Just look at the view.’ I agreed, but as she moved to unpack, I noticed something odd on the windowsill. A small handprint, pressed into the dust, too small for an adult. When I touched it, the dust smeared, and the print vanished. I shrugged it off, blaming my imagination.

We spent the evening exploring the tea garden, walking along the narrow paths between the low bushes. The sky turned orange, then purple, and the air grew cool. As we returned to the hotel, the lights flickered on one by one, casting warm pools on the veranda. Dinner was in the dining hall, a large room with a high ceiling and ceiling fans that turned slowly, like underwater creatures. We ordered a thali, and the food was good, as we’d come to expect. But as we ate, I noticed that the other guests—a middle-aged couple, a family with two kids—all seemed to avoid eye contact. They spoke in hushed tones, and when the clock above the door struck nine, they all rose and left, as if on a schedule.

The manager came to our table, a glass of water in his hand. ‘There is a curfew here, sahib,’ he said, his voice low. ‘After ten, we request you to stay in your room. The garden is not safe at night.’ I asked why, but he just smiled, a thin line, and retreated to the kitchen. Meera looked at me, her brow furrowed. ‘What was that about?’ she said. I shrugged. ‘Maybe wild animals,’ I said, but I didn’t believe it.

We retired to our room at nine-thirty, the hallway dimly lit. As we walked, I could have sworn I heard footsteps behind us, but when I turned, there was nothing. The room was exactly as we left it, except that the window was open wider. The curtains swayed, and a cold draft made me shiver. Meera closed it, and we got into bed. She fell asleep quickly, but I lay awake, listening to the sounds of the night: the leaves rustling, the distant bark of a dog, and then something else. A faint, rhythmic tapping, like a stick against a wall, coming from the other side of our room. I turned on the lamp. The room was empty. The tapping stopped. I lay back down, my heart pounding, and after a while, the tapping returned, now more persistent. It seemed to come from the wardrobe. I got up, my feet cold on the wooden floor, and opened the wardrobe. Nothing but hangers. When I closed it, the tapping began again, but from the window.

I pulled back the curtain. Outside, the tea garden was bathed in a pale blue light from the moon, and among the bushes, I saw a figure. A man in a white dhoti, standing perfectly still, facing our window. I blinked, and he was gone. I must have been seeing things. I closed the curtain and sat on the edge of the bed, my mind racing. Meera stirred. ‘What’s wrong?’ she mumbled. I told her I saw a shadow. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Maybe the gardener,’ she said, but her voice was uncertain. We decided to sleep, but I left the lamp on.

But it didn’t last. At around midnight, a sound woke me—a child’s laughter, faint but unmistakable, coming from outside. I crept to the window and looked out. In the tea garden, there were now three figures, standing in a loose circle, their faces hidden. They were motionless. As I watched, one of them raised a hand and pointed directly at me. I stumbled back, my throat tight. Meera woke up, alarmed. ‘What is it?’ she cried. I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the window. She looked, and her face went pale. ‘They’re gone,’ she said, and when I looked again, the garden was empty.

We sat in silence, holding hands. The laughter started again, this time from inside the room. It came from under the bed. I looked under the mattress, but there was only dust. Then the laughter moved to the hallway, and we heard footsteps running back and forth, as if in a game. The doorknob rattled. I shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ but the only response was a giggle, high and thin, that faded away.

I pulled Meera close. ‘We’re leaving,’ I said. ‘First thing in the morning.’ She nodded, her eyes wide. We sat, fully awake, the lamp humming. But then, the door swung open. No one was there. A cold draft swept in, and the window burst open, the glass shattering. We screamed as the wind howled through the room, and the curtains flew like ghosts. The wardrobe doors banged open and shut, and the framed photograph fell from the wall, the glass cracking.

As suddenly as it started, it stopped. Silence. The room was a mess, but the lamp still glowed. I looked at the broken window. Outside, in the tea garden, the three figures were back, but now they were closer, at the edge of the veranda. They were slowly walking toward our room. I grabbed Meera, and we ran out the door, into the hallway. The lights were off, but the emergency exit sign glowed green. We ran down the corridor, our feet slapping the wood. The hallway seemed endless, stretching farther than it should. We passed door after door, all numbers, but we couldn’t find the exit that was just a few meters from our room.

The laughter was all around us, echoing off the walls. We finally reached the end, where a door marked ‘EXIT’ led to the back garden. We burst through it, into the cool night air. We ran without looking back, through the tea bushes, tripping over roots, until we reached the main road. We didn’t stop until we saw the lights of a small dhaba. We entered, breathless.

The owner, an old man, looked at us with concern. ‘You are from that hotel?’ he asked. We nodded. He shook his head. ‘Many have left in the middle of the night. It is the old ones, they still walk there. They say the tea garden was a meeting place for the British, and they buried something beneath the bushes. At night, they come back to guard it.’

We didn’t ask what. We just took a room at the dhaba, huddled together, and waited for dawn. When the sun rose, we drove back to Chandigarh without looking back. For weeks after, I would hear that faint laughter in my sleep, and sometimes, when I closed my eyes, I would see the handprint on the windowsill, the one that had vanished. We never spoke of it, not even to each other, as if the silence could keep it from finding us. But sometimes, late at night, I think I hear the tapping on my window, and I wonder if the handprint is still there, waiting for me to come back.